


Once Bitten

by Vlora (LitheLies)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, self improvement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19046068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitheLies/pseuds/Vlora
Summary: The new world had few rules, but one was crucial; you get bit, you turn. This steadfast rule is thrown into question when Beth and Daryl find a boy spying on them, who takes a chunk out of Beth’s wrist with his teeth.Is it immunity, or something more?(Split off from Season 4 "Still" onwards. Following canon is optional. This is primarily just a character study with plot mixed in. Heavy on the Beth/Daryl interactions.)





	1. I Spy.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's only been four years since Beth died and I'm totally Dealing With It -- in this fic!
> 
> As the summary specified, this will tackle story elements from the show but I'm going to avoid reenacting scenes unless they're drastically altered. Some story elements are totally invented for this story, drawing on pseudoscience and my wants.
> 
> Any semblance of a plot is merely a vessel for my feelings to flourish with a backdrop. I see Beth as nineteen and Daryl at around thirty-nine, please don’t @ me. We're both here to have fun, so let's see how it goes!

The crunch of leaves stuck in Beth’s ears like an endless chorus. They’d been walking for hours, maybe days, _weeks_... Time had long since blended into a mulch of memories. Mixed into her thoughts were her lost family and hurt friends. She crossed her arms tighter over her chest, her chin dipped and her eyes fixed ahead of her. Their endless march would be over soon, given daylight had begun to wane. The sun hung at around the four o'clock point, something she'd learned to read thanks to life on her farm.

It's not too terribly hard to tell the time based off the sun's position, so long as you keep your bearings.

”We planning to stop soon?” Beth sung, light and sweet.

No response.

"Daryl? Did you hear me?" She smiled as her words resonated between them, with no visible response from Daryl. "Or are you ignoring me?"

Daryl grunted.

”You gonna talk?”

Silence.

Beth swallowed hard, her nose scrunched as she dipped down into herself for something to do. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful, for being alive and for being fed, but life wasn’t much when all you did was walk. She spun thoughts through her mind, about why she was here, why had she survived, why not others, why, why, why — and then she was cushioned into Daryl’s slick leather back. Her fingers ghosted the embroidered wings and busted seams, as she peered past his broad shoulder.

She looked before she spoke, and she was thankful for her foresight. A group was seated around a fire, deaf to their approach. They had tin can lines strewn around their encampment, and in truth, Beth would have missed them if she’d been looking. It was Daryl’s scrutiny that saved her, again.

And she was thankful, again.

At least it explained his silence. They had a fire going, they were  _laughing_ , and if she focused really hard, she could smell the smoke. Their mirth carried above the drum of cicadas, but only just. Beth nudged her shoulder into Daryl’s back as if to urge him forward. He remained still, a hitch to his lip visible as the hairs of his mustache shifted. She instead felt him back up into her, his arm curved around to protect her. He insisted them backward, softly, silently, and they crept silently away. She followed like a shadow, with enough trust to mirror his every move. She'd been practicing, after all.

Once they were clear of the group, Daryl took long, decisive strides north-east, rather than the straight east they’d been heading.

“What if they're good people?”

No response, as if he’d rise to her bait so soon.

”Daryl, you met my family, you trusted us — “

”Didn’t.”

Ah, a response, finally. Her stomach buckled under nervous pressure, matched by the sick feeling that came before a fight.

”Okay, well, Rick trusted us.”

”Mh, and y’had a barn full a’walkers.” This was grumbled, quiet enough that she _could_ have ignored it.

Beth dipped her head, exaggerated as she walked behind Daryl. She hurried her steps to match him, which left her footfall louder than ever. He shot her a sideways glance, with his usual stink eye.

"We learned to trust one another eventually, and we survived because of it.” _Most of us, anyway_.  She resisted the urge to cross her arms, given it was impractical and downright pouty to do. Instead, she clenched her hands together by her sides til even her short nails felt like daggers. "Can't be on your own forever."

And no response. She expected as much, but it hadn't stopped her from trying to coax him back. The flood of 'maybe' kept going in her head, though she saw reason in his logic. Strangers could be as good as they could be bad, and he didn't trust her enough to take that risk. That's how she saw it.

Daryl had followed Rick before and worked with others. But Beth had no authority with him, and she’d not had a chance to earn such a status. Instead, she was a duffle bag with legs, who needed to eat and pee on occasion. She hoisted her canvas knapsack, her nose wrinkled til her freckles disappeared into the creases.

They could go back, she postured. They could go back, watch the people they’d seen, maybe ask if they’d seen others. Maybe they were nice. Maybe they had friends or family, maybe they had skills or stories. She watched the sun settle into the trees ahead, her feet beyond protesting. She had nubs rather than feet.

Beth had been childish in thinking their relationship had been christened in the flames of the moonshine shack they’d burned together. He’d been kinder, sure, but he’d become more withdrawn. Perhaps the kindness she saw in him was merely silence. Where he’d snap before, he now bit back. She dragged her fingers through tangled blonde hair, sun-bleached and brittle from the elements.

Daryl nudged her with his elbow, and a grunt followed.

Beth grunted back, through her nose, her arms crossed as she’d given up on pretend maturity.

They set up camp in silence, though it was more companionable than it’d been their first few nights. It’d been a few weeks since the prison fell, and a few days since her hangover had passed from the moonshine. She cast out a threadbare blanket and tarp, to establish a base.

The blanket made it easy to gather everything up with only four corners grabbed, rather than grabbing every little thing. She had a few toiletries and a tiny radio that someone had rigged to run off solar power. There were no stations, though an occasional broadcast would eek through. Other groups, maybe, or old recordings.

She felt rather than saw Daryl sit beside her, ass first and legs sprawled. He took to sewing a tear in his pant leg, rough and quick. It’d tear again in no time, as he only did four stitches before it gnawed off the end. He tossed the kit between them, as she toyed with the radio.

He looked at her, at the radio, and scoffed. The question went unasked, about why she bothered with it.

”Might hear something,” she hummed, soft and low. “Music, or a signal. Gotta be something out there.”

Daryl tossed out some rabbit jerky he’d made a few days ago, which he set onto in silence. She ate her portion in equal silence, her gaze trained onto the night sky. The endless walking, the desperation in every action. She bit down hard, decisive, and turned to look up at Daryl.

While she had reclined, he was up, alert. He bounced his foot, jerky bunched against his cheek as he chewed. He knew she was looking, he always knew, but he kept his gaze trained into the distance. He was impassive and distant, anxious about everything and nothing all at once.

Beth didn’t need to think much on that to know he was scared. She just wasn’t sure of what, or why.

Her bra strap fell to an awful, cutting angle and she adjusted to accommodate for it. With great inelegance, she undid it and tossed the stained lacy thing into her knapsack. It had begun to chafe her rib cage anyway, and she only wore it half the time. It wouldn’t be the end of the world to skip out on wearing it.

”Need to find water, t’do some laundering.”

A grunt.

”Maybe some new shoes or something too.”

Another grunt.

“And a magical unicorn named Sugarplum.”

And another grunt, though this one was followed with a snort.

“Ah, so you _are_ listening to me, huh?” Beth beamed at him, tired around her eyes and sweaty everywhere else. “What’re you looking out for?”

Daryl shrugged a shoulder, his fingers knotted together, then loose, an endless pattern of anxious energy.

”I doubt those people followed us.” Beth tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ear, her mouth pulled down to one side. “What about a game?”

She took his silence as an invitation to start. “How about _I Spy_? I’ll go first." She cleared her throat, propped up on her elbows. "I spy with my little blue eye...”

Daryl remained static, his head on a pivot on the tree line ahead.

“Something beginning with G.”

“Greene.”

”No, it’s not a color.” She smirked inwardly, aware that was a warning rather than a prompt. She looped her arm around her knee, her hands on her ankles. “Go again.”

The muscles in his jaw worked, in tight, tense circles. He narrowed his eyes, sitting in silence as he watched for threats. The forest was silent, save for trees rustling or cicadas screaming.

”C’mon, guess.”

"No.”

Beth rolled her eyes. She tucked a hand beneath her chin and pivoted to look up at Daryl. “It’s an easy one, promise.”

Daryl skimmed the limited horizon, lips working together as he fought the urge to guess. He wasn’t immune to light-hearted games, and he’d indulged others in such guessing games before. The winter they’d spend shacked up in old shipping containers proved that.

”Grass.”

”Beg ya pardon?” Beth drawled, sickly sweet in her victory.

”I said, grass.”

”Nope.” Beth popped the ‘p’, and nudged her chin into the meat of her forearm. “Guess again. That’s two wrong.”

“Thought y’said it’s easy.”

”Should be, for a hunter like you.” Beth hummed low in her vocal register, doe eyes wide in the blooming night. The sun had died and the sky popped red over the trees. She watched him scan the distance, over and over.

”Gravel.”

”No.”

Daryl fell silent, in his last ditch effort to appear unfazed. He liked to win, as everyone did, but he handled loss poorly. Sometimes he’d throw a fit and get properly mad, but this silent defeat was worse. He curled a hand into the blanket she’d thrown on the ground, digging his fingers through a few holes that had been torn into it.

”Y’want a hint.”

”No.”

”You gonna keep guessing?”

Silence. Not even a grunt this time. Beth exhaled through her nose, her eye line dropped low and close. She stared at the space between them, head tipped to the side as she watched Daryl.

And he kept staring outward, in search of danger or the answer to her riddle.

”It’s closer than you realize. Sweeter, too, if you find it at the right time.”

Daryl shot her a strange look, petulant and annoyed. “S’cheatin’.”

Beth heard her heartbeat in her head, unsure what was ‘cheating’. He had fixed her with a cruel gaze, accented by the distrust and distance that had formed between them. She narrowed her eyes, a direct challenge to his glare.

"Girl."

Where intensity should form, is instead fumbled and graceless. Daryl growled around the sound and looked down at her for longer than he'd meant.

Was that a guess?

"Grapes." Beth pointed by his foot, where several grapes had smushed together. The tang of too ripe fruit hung in the air, along with sweat and dirt. "I could see _grapes_."

Her words seemed to pull Daryl's leg back, as if offended by the grapes. In reality, he was probably kicking himself for missing such an obvious resource.

"You were too busy looking out there," she gestured, languid and vague, her hand pressed to her now red cheek. "Instead of what's right in front of you."

Silence returned, the status quo had been restored. Beth picked at the hole in her jeans while Daryl eyed the grapes. He tracked them to a nearby vine, further, till the deep purple merged with the night.

"You have a turn."

Daryl ignored her.

"Make it as hard as you want." The words stumbled out of her mouth but she stood by them, wide blue eyes glossy in the twilight.

He shifted, wordlessly. His snatched up a few grapes from by his foot, not bothered if they were popped open or mixed with dirt.

"G'on, or I'll ask why you thought I'd call myself sweet."

"I spy," he snarled, against his better judgment. His voice was hoarse and worn down by smoke and booze, but it carried a pleasant hum. Like the old car Jimmy tried to tune up. "With my little blue eye -- "

"Hey, I said blue 'cause my eyes are _blue_." Beth flapped her hand in the air, like waves against a rowboat. "You gotta say your eye color."

Daryl rounded on her, muscles working beneath his skin, bone bursting at his clavicle. He was solid and stern, tan skin dirty from weeks on the run. She could tell you about the red bandana he kept in his pocket, or the rough strings he'd drawn around his ankles. She could detail the way his vest stunk of smoke and sweat, and how she'd hated it at first. It'd become familiar now, and it reassured her. It meant he was close, and she'd even talked him into letting it tan in the sun. She could even note the greys and browns that made up his facial hair, or how his eyebrows seemed to have vanished from all the scowling.

But of all the things Beth hadn't noticed, it was his eyes. Funny, as they bore down on her, and she realized her mistake.

How could she _know_ all that, but not know that he had blue eyes. Beyond the usual sunbaked lawn chair blue, or faded bunting at a carnival. It shocked her, deeply, as she stared back at him. Maybe it was that she'd never looked too closely, and if she had, the shadows cast by his scowl disguised their brightness. Or maybe he avoided her eye, as he did after a long moment. He pivoted back to his original vantage, head extended, muscles tense.

"Oh."

A deep red blush ran the length of her face and chest. This was meant to be fun, but she'd been thrown back to _I Never_.

Daryl pushed himself up to his feet. It only took him a few seconds to vanish into the dark, as if on a mission.

He couldn't be that upset about her not knowing his eye color, could he?

Beth craned her neck as she watched him pace away, anxiety creeping along her spine. He wouldn't leave her. Not over such a minor thing...

The blonde was left blinking into the night for a long minute, all until Daryl emerged with a handful of grapes and a fistful of flannel.

Not to mention the tawny-haired boy with a split lip and red ringed around his eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a 'haha let's kill time at work' thing, and then turned into kinda plot. It's been 84 long years since I've written any fics.
> 
> As you can probably see from my previous works in my AO3, I have a lot of drabble-y Bethyl pieces, as well as a longform piece that was written as a roleplay originally. While I do have the entirety of 'Learn The Rules' in a Google Doc format, the back and forth nature of it made it difficult to read and subsequently edit. We also wrote it out of order, which caused continuity issues. As such, this fic 'Once Bitten' is gonna be my own story, potentially drawing on moments from that story while making it my own thing.


	2. Guessed Book.

The boy had taken Beth so off-guard, she realised too late that he was unconscious. It made him appear even younger, though he must have been around thirteen.

And in the worst way, he reminded her of Carl.

”Why’d you — “

”He passed out,” Daryl cut her off, rough hands bunched into the layers the boy wore. They were boring through autumn, with dead leaves and endless clouds. It was rarely cold, but soon it’d be a problem.

Daryl dropped him like a pile of rags, and began to fix his wrists together with an old VCR cable that he’d pilfered. He made short work of the makeshift ties, and drew a gag through the boy’s mouth. Just in case he’d spontaneously died, a thought Beth rushed past for her own sake.

”Was he alone?”

Daryl grunted in the affirmative, and pivoted his weight from one knee to the other. “Had some book, but yeah.”

”How’d you see him?”

”He’s been followin’ us for the last mile or so,” Daryl bore his weight down to his knuckles as he pushed himself to his feet. He headed back to the shrubs, where he’d emerged from with the boy in tow.

Beth followed, sending a nervous glance back to the boy once, twice. “Did you drop something?”

Daryl shook his head, though the low light made body language harder to read. “He did.”

“What?” Her voice mixed into the rustle of leaves, as they poked through the low brush.

”A book,” he explained, rough hands buried in the decaying forest floor. “Was too busy writin’ in it t’see me comin’.”

The boy had a diary? Or, journal, as boys tended to prefer. She furrowed her brow, unsure what exactly he could have been writing. And he had been following them? Was he writing about them, or was that self-aggrandising? She searched all the same, and lucked out as her eyes locked onto the glimmer of silver.

The corners were edged with silver, a detail that would have seemed sweet before. Now it was downright ornate, contrasted with her raggedy faux leather diary with peeled stickers on the cover.

”Got it,” she nudged Daryl, the journal in hand.

And with no thought, he yanked it from her hand. She shouldn’t have felt as offended as she did, as it wasn’t her journal. But it had been her discovery, and she didn’t know what he planned to do with it.

”You can’t read it,” she squawked, as the re-emerged from the shrubbery. The boy remained curled up on the threadbare blanket, unmoved since they disappearance.

Daryl was already halfway through the pages, flicking too fast to be reading. He had a squint about him too, and Beth had to wonder if he was farsighted.

”What if it’s personal,” she sounded hurt, matched with reproachful eyes and a dipped chin.

”Boy broke any privacy when he was peepin’ on us.”

The word ‘peeping’ made her giggle when it shouldn’t have.

”This funny t’you?”

Beth shook her head, but her smile remained. Of all the potential stalkers, a creepy teenager was the least of their concerns. She tried to peer over Daryl’s shoulder as he read, which he allowed... Until their names popped up, along with coordinates.

Daryl snatched the pages out, tearing the paper to shreds with little more than a growl.

”What did it say?”

”Don’t matter,” he spoke too quick, enough to betray that yes, it did matter.

Beth looked at the scraps of paper that scattered across the forest floor, and then back to Daryl. He had already rounded on the boy, and was about to level a kick at him.

“Hey!” Beth caught his elbow, to pull him back from the boy.

“This asshole’s workin’ f’somebody,” he snarled, nastiness baked into every word. He dragged his hand through his hair, and flicked his hand away. Silt and sweat flew from his fingertips, as he shifted side to side. He wanted at the boy, and Beth couldn’t allow it.

“You don’t have to kill a kid.”

“I can kick his ass though.”

Beth gave him an incredulous look, then looked back at the motionless boy. He was bundled up in leather and denim, with deer brown hair and a reddened nose. He reminded her of a boy she used to babysit, before.

“Talk to him when he wakes up,” she soothed her hand across Daryl’s chest, which threw him so much that he stopped moving altogether.

It was like water thrown onto a fire, how he sputtered and fizzled into silence.

“What was on those pages, the ones you tore up?”

Daryl shook his head, and moved to sit beside the kid. He had his knife in hand, as he cleaned up the shafts of his crossbow bolts.

Beth looked at the book, with a low pang of regret. If someone had found her journal, she’d hate to think they’d tear it apart in spite. Rather, she hoped it could provide insight to her life, to her experiences... Maybe it could even help someone understand the world they were in now.

She picked up the shredded journal, and began to leaf through the pages. There were names, dozens of them, some grouped, others alone. The ones who were alone were sometimes written as descriptions, rather than names.

“Tall brunette woman” or “Blonde man with bad skin”. He had also noted down who was related to who in some cases, or if people were siblings, or couples. There were ways to use that, or skills, like fishing or sewing... She gnawed at her thumbnail as she read, hopeful against all hope that she might see a name she recognised, Or, maybe it’d be better if they weren’t in this book.

Coordinates were noted in a few cases, but the names were often marked. Some had crosses, others were crossed out altogether, and a few had checkmarks.

“What d’you think it means?” She asked aloud, and she looked to Daryl.

Daryl shrugged, if he moved at all. He seemed fixed on the boy, who was motionless on the ground. He’d not moved since Daryl had dragged him out of the forest. That had been half an hour ago, perhaps more.

“You think he’s tracking people.”

Daryl grunted in agreement. “Don’t know why.”

Beth nodded, her index finger crooked around her chin. She twitched her nose as she read and reread. As she retreated through the information, all the way to the front page, she saw more and more names. All until the point where she saw a single word.

Sanctuary.

“Hey, Daryl, why — “

Daryl hissed through his teeth, a hand waved at her. “I don’t know why he was writin’ shit down. Hell, half that shit could be fake, or — outta his damn mind.”

Beth closed the book, her thumbs marked in the pages and the book pinched between her knees.

“What’d he write about us?”

Daryl was made of stone, his knife stilled on the shaft of his bolt. He adjusted his grip and continued shaving down the excess splinters. They’d be useless eventually, but it helped them pop out of walkers easier.

“What did he write, Daryl.”

He continued to work, unmoved by the repeated question and her tone of voice. He’d already betrayed his hand, though, and she’d get to the bottom of this. She left the question for now, glaring at Daryl, and then at the scraps of paper he’d thrown around.

It became a game of cat and mouse, where he refused to sleep, and she did, too. The hours crept by, and she feigned sleep though her attention was in the few scraps of paper that’d latched onto shrubs or branches. He, on the other hand, kept his gaze fixed on the boy who still hadn’t come back to consciousness.

After a seemingly endless stint of quiet Georgian ambiance, the boy twitched to life.

It was slow at first, grumbles through his gag and a shuffle in the leaves, but then the panic set in. He began to breath, deep and fearful, eyes blown wide, teeth gnashing around the gag as he tried to catch his breath.

Daryl moved to ready his knife, but Beth cut in front of him.

“He’s just trying to breathe — “

Teeth.

Beth felt teeth.

Her wrist sprouted with blood, as she stared at the spot where canines and incisors tore her open. Funny, she though, how he’d bitten the wrist she’d cut years ago. Her life ended almost the same way now, as it had before.

The scraps of paper seemed silly now.

Everything seemed silly.

Especially her.

Daryl dug the knife into the boy’s skull, then stared at Beth.

You idiot. He didn’t say it, but she could see it in his eyes. She’d only wanted to help him breathe. He hadn’t seemed like a walker, just a boy, panicking. He’d been so quiet in his sleep. He still felt warm to the touch. That isn’t how walkers appear, is it?

It’s on a run, or from the night, bloody and decayed.

Not a boy, curled up and hyperventilating.

“I don’t think he turned, I think he just — “

Beth and Daryl sat, staring one another down. After a too-long moment, Daryl yanked his bandana from his pocket and wrapped it tight around her wrist. He held the pressure there, sat so close to her that she could see the sweat dripping down his forehead, down his eyelashes.

“I don’t think he’d turned.”

Daryl remained silent, the corpse of the boy between them. Whatever his book had been about was now lost to the both of them, and Beth felt silly to be upset about that.

Instead she remained in Daryl’s embrace, her arm pinched in the mass of his hand, her eyelashes fluttering as her stomach turned. She didn’t wince or cry, she didn’t do anything at all. She remained still, pressed against his upper arm and chest, his chin resting on her head as she stared at the boy.

They would have noticed, if he had turned.

The blood pooled onto their threadbare blanket, and turned his tawny hair russet.

“It’s okay, Daryl.” Beth cooed, soft and gentle, a smile in her voice. “I’m okay, I promise.”

“Th’fuck did you do that for Beth. Stupid,” he snapped, but he didn’t sound mad. She had heard him be mad, and she’d seen him when he was furious, and right now he seemed... Sad. Solemn. She couldn’t blame him.

“He was choking.”

“Should’ve let him.”

Beth laughed to herself, light headed from the loss of blood. It dawned on her how close Daryl had gotten, whereas before he’d tried to get away from her. She cocked her head to the side, to rest her cheek against his chest.

“We should... move.” She exhaled, low and soft. “Blood might draw ‘em...”

Daryl moved back, reluctance baked into every movement. He seemed to regain himself, for now. His shoulders squared and his bloody hands ran through the boy’s clothes. He found a pocket knife and a walkie talkie with no batteries.

Beth stared at Daryl’s bandana, as if she had forgotten why it was there to begin with. Their makeshift camp was easy to pack up, all tucked away into the knapsack she’d found a few days ago. They left the blanket and the boy, though Beth snatched up the book he’d had.

Aside from the ache in her wrist, Beth felt hot and full of adrenaline.

She ignored how Daryl shot a wary look at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

“I’m fine, I promise.” That wasn’t for her to say; time would tell.

Light had begun to spring into the air, their hours wasted in half-sleep now past them. Beth allowed Daryl to lead by a few paces, and seized the opportunity to grab a shred of paper. The blood loss hadn’t shifted all of her priorities.

_”Blonde woman, maybe nineteen or twenty. Slim, small. Not strong. Sings good. Could be skilled trade.”_

Beth narrowed her eyes, resentful at the comment about her strength. Maybe that was true, she wasn’t a fighter, but she had her own strength, and she’d survived.

_”Older brunette man, kinda dirty. Seems dumb, but very strong, good hunter. Use girl to get him to work? Probably wants to fuck her.”_

Beth felt Daryl’s gaze, as he’d turned his full attention onto her. She bunched the paper into her palm and rushed to catch up with him, her face red for all manner of reasons. It was no surprise that Daryl had been eager to beat the kid down, no matter the age difference.

”You sure you wanna move?”

”Certain,” she hummed, low and sweet. She kept the wad of paper in her fist, and to her surprise, Daryl didn’t press her on it. His attention was fixed to her face, and to a lesser extent, her wrist.

They were playing a waiting game now, and she wasn’t sure if she could win this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the end of the story, Beth dies to a bite, GG EZ.
> 
> (I realise text is toneless, so to clarify, this is a joke. But it is introducing a story element for later.)


	3. Chomp At The Bit

The bite on Beth’s wrist remained as much her focus as it was Daryl’s. He pretended not to focus on it, sure, he’d kept quiet... But she noticed how he would tense up if she slipped in the underbrush or paused for too long. He had taught her to be observant, like him.

In a strange way, he was more upset about the bite than she was.

It had hurt, as a human bite would. Their teeth weren’t necessarily meant to tear flesh like a carnivore, though they could certainly eat meat. She had been a vegetarian before everything fell apart...

For whatever reason, that struck her as funny now. Everything just seemed _funny_.

Maybe it was the blood loss.

Their endless journey northward and eastward stilled as they hit a clearing. A doe was crumpled there, missing a foot altogether. It was hard to tell what had happened at a distance, but Daryl spared no time in notching a bolt.

Beth watched, unsure if it was good or bad that relief filled her rather than regret. The poor animal was suffering, and it wouldn’t have survived long without a hoof. On some level, the deer mirrored her relief, as it swelled and sagged until it was still.

She followed in step as Daryl approached the deer, to examine its wound. She stayed staring at the gentle beast, while Daryl traced a path into the brush nearby. He ducked away, leaving her with the dead doe, stalking through the greenery.  She rested her hand on its hide and pried the arrow from its throat.

At least Daryl was a good shot, able to kill most things in a single hit. Unless he was feeling vindictive. The walker that he’d beaten with a golf club came to mind, and the one he’d pinned to a tree, for target practice. Walkers were fun for him, to hunt and to hurt.

She twirled the bolt in hand, trying not to think of how it’d feel to be sighted by such precision.

”Escaped a trap,” he drew closer, his hand held out to take back the bolt. “Don’t seem — “ he waved a hand, avoiding the word ‘bit’.

”So it lost it’s foot, tryin’ to escape?”

He accepted it gently, much to her surprise. He’d been far gentler since she’d been bitten. A grim line formed across his face, cheek to cheek. She ignored how it mirrored his brother, and to an extent, her.

Daryl dropped to his knee, hoisting the carcass to his shoulder. She tried to hide how impressed she was by that simple act, and she swore she saw his face go red. He rubbed his free hand over his face, his gaze spun outward to the clearing.

”We’re near somethin’.” He set off at the same pace and direction as before, burdened by a prize that could see them fed for weeks.

If she lived that long.

”Hey Daryl,” Beth spoke, gentle and wavering. “When I turn — “

”If y’turn.”

“Okay...” Beth scrunched her features up. She didn’t know what she was afraid of exactly, merely that she was afraid. She nodded once, twice, her lips brought between her teeth. “If I turn, can you make sure you bury me? And, make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

”Jesus Beth,” he scoffed, his tone watery. “Y’gonna be fine.”

Beth gawked at his optimism. “But, I got bitten, Daryl. You don’t come back from that.”

“Never know,” Daryl looked at her, his gaze fixed to hers. ” _You_ might.”

It seemed that they were going to exist in blind optimism. That was a surprise. Her stomach turned, over and over, as a raw itch settled into the back of her throat. She coughed, once, twice, and the feeling only got worse.

Daryl‘s mouth audibly popped open. But rather than vocalize anything, he coughed too, as if in solidarity. “Pollen or some shit.”

Beth had to laugh, which only made the coughing worse. She paused by a rotting willow tree, the bare tendrils stripped by autumn. She coughed through for a long moment, her nails dig into her palm as the hacking, phlegmy sound bounced around the dead forest.

Daryl moved to reassure her, but the doe’s head rolled and knocked Beth in the head. She laughed to stop herself from crying, the sickly cold slap of a dead deer’s tongue too much for her to handle. She moved away from the deer and the tree and regained her composure.

A few dozen yards later, Beth felt as if her stomach bottomed out. 

“A graveyard, wow,” she huffed. She looked back at Daryl, who nodded forward. She stared past the yards of gravestones and saw the funeral home squat in the middle of the roughly hewn stone. A house? She gawked at it, then to Daryl, who seemed focused on her.

“Might be good to find somewhere, for a little while...” She tucked a thick strand of hair behind her ear before she cradled her injured arm in her hand.

Daryl slumped the deer onto the ground by a large headstone, one that spoke of a boy who’d died at the age of eleven. Beth tried not to linger on the thought, of the boy Daryl had found. What had killed him? Shock or suffocation, or was he still alive when he’d lashed out at her?

They swept and cleared the house in half an hour, though Daryl led much of the search. Beth hung by the front door while he checked the back, as well as an embalming room downstairs and a simple set of rooms upstairs. She was curious about what was up there but reasoned there’d be time to explore later.

Her real interest was on the piano, surrounded by chairs and a coffin. She avoided eye contact with the coffin, pointedly, but shot loving eyes at the instrument. Her arm winced in protest as if it knew she was planning to use her hand.

She could hear Daryl prowling upstairs, as he searched for walkers. She was still by the front door, though she hovered between the piano room and the stairs. They’d closed the front door but not yet locked it, in case they needed to run.

And of all things, the wallpaper made her homesick.

“S’clear,” he mumbled, blade sheathed and shoulder bloody from the doe.

”I think this place might have a water catcher like we used to have,” she pawed her loose hair, looking up at the building. “It’s awful remote, wouldn’t surprise me if they made this place self-sufficient... Maybe not the power, but... What?”

Daryl shook his head, a rare smile flickering on his lips.

”Why’re you smiling like that, huh?”

”Don’t often talk ‘bout _logistics_ ,” he spoke from the side of his mouth as if the smile had impacted his ability to speak.

”I don’t often have a chance, but seein’ as it’s just you and me,” she waved her good hand at him, with a flourish. “I figure I should weigh in.”

Daryl shrugged his shoulders. He dipped out and away, to source a basin of water. As Beth expected, there was rainwater hooked up to the pipes though they’d be smart to check the tank. Before she had the chance to suggest that, Daryl had started gulping it down.

”Okay, watch it, that water might be — “

”S’fine.”

Beth screamed with her eyes, her smile savage and sharp as she watched him slurp water like a fiend. She exhaled, exasperated, and looked down at her wrist.

”Might see if they have some kinda first aid.”

Daryl ditched the basin on the dressed in the hallway, the water splashing along the wall and over some picture frames.

”Careful,” she scolded her wrist in hand. He grabbed her, gentler than she expected, to peel back the bandana. The bleeding had slowed, though it had healed to the fabric. She winced as he pressed it back into place, his rough fingertips soothing across her forearm.

“Might be a kit in th’bathroom, c’mon,” he caught her shoulder in the flat of his palm, a sterile distance between them. She couldn’t even remember being clutched to his chest, as he’d done earlier. Crisis shucked any anxiety Daryl had about contact.

At the top of the stairs, there was a hallway, with four doors spread along the walls, two to each. A big window hung at either end of the hallway, and the door nearest to them was open. Beth wondered about the other three, but she had to sort herself out first.

Inside was a turn of the century bathroom, a little rustic with porcelain fixtures and a claw-footed bathtub. A curtain had been strung around the toilet, while the basin was like a podium, with no real benches to speak of. A wicker hamper sat by the bath, covered in candles that had melted to the base and a few dried flowers sprinkled beside it.

Dust danced over the bath and sink, and the tiles made quiet protests against their weight as they entered.

Traditional brown and white tiles sprawled across the floor, though Beth couldn’t help but fixate on a deep brown stain that spread like ink in the grout by the tub. Someone had bled here, a while ago. But it’d been cleaned up. This was a funeral home, maybe someone cut themselves, or...

Or maybe it was better not to know.

Once seated on the bathroom floor, Daryl dropped to his knees by her. He’d grabbed the kit of rudimentary work safety equipment, of antibacterial creams and bandages. The bite hadn’t been severe enough to need stitches, and for that she was grateful. It didn’t make the reality of the situation sink in, either, which...

It was like being handed a slip of paper that said ‘you’re about to die’. She couldn’t take it seriously, even if she wanted to.

”How y’feelin’?”

“Fine, just, stuffed up in my throat, like I swallowed a wet cotton ball.” Beth shrugged, Daryl’s hands framed around the curve of her forearm. He stroked his thumbs absent-mindedly, as one would do to soothe an animal.

Daryl gave her his full attention, and for the first time since their game of _I Spy_ , she recognized how blue his eyes were. Only this time, the blue stood out against red, and Beth felt her eyes twinge in kind.

”Hey you,” she spoke light and sweet like she was trying to coax him into a song. “Like you said, I might be okay.”

Daryl chomped down on his inner cheek, so hard that she could see the flesh indent. His cheekbones stood out more for it, and she was reminded of the man beneath the muck. She brushed her fingertips over the bandage that he’d applied, with more precision than most.

”You do this often? Patch people up?”

Daryl furrowed his brow, then shook his head. “Naw, just...” He waved at himself, with a loose paw of a fist.

”You did really good.”

Daryl smiled but ducked it behind his hair. He dropped his weight to the floor, one leg kicked up while the other curved beneath him. He rested his forearm on his knee and fidgeted his fingers against his thumb. His gaze was fixed on her, unabashedly.

”He might not’ve turned. Like, he could’ve just bit me, outta defense.” Beth picked at the decal of her boot. “I’d bite someone if they tied me up.”

Daryl shot her a scandalized look, as she added ‘ _you know what I mean_ ’.

“Maybe you should tie me up, tonight. Or, just put me somewhere I can’t hurt you.”

The tiny circles his jaw worked in confused her, as she looked him dead in the eye. “You really want that?”

Beth felt her throat bob until she nodded, tears bubbling beneath the surface. “If you put me in the morgue, downstairs, you can have the house to yourself. I won’t bother you, and, hopefully...”

Daryl dug his finger into the loose grout by the foot of the tub, tearing out the decorative tiles. He tossed the gravel and grit away, methodically, his mouth reduced to a fine line.

”Nah,” he shook his head.

”Daryl, you can’t sleep if I’m by your side, about to turn.”

”I can’t sleep if you’re not by my side, end of story,” he bit that out, too sharp to be kind. 

_You’re all I have left._

Though it wasn’t something they’d said aloud, the sentiment was shared. He held little faith that others were still out there, and he seemed lost without a group. No matter how faithfully he played the role of the loner, he needed someone to ground him.

It had been his brother, then Rick, Carol, a few others in the group... And now that pressure fell onto her, as he stared at her with pack loyalty.

”If I turn, please, keep going. For me.”

Daryl worked the heel of his palm against his eyes, and she made no mention of the tears. They sat in companionable silence up until Beth was overwhelmed with the urge to throw up. It rolled over her all at once, a full body sickness akin to the flu.

She didn’t even have balance, as she nearly slipped headfirst into the toilet. She didn’t even know if it flushed, but old habits died hard.

Both surprising and not, Daryl shadowed her. He held her hair back, no mention of the vomit or comments edgewise.

She sobbed, broken and silent, as her insides began to burn. Her stomach roiled, empty yet desperate to be even emptier.

And so began the worst night she’d had since the prison fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost 7k in two days, HMMMMM. I wish I had more to say or explain about the story, but it's just kinda happening & I'm enjoying the process.


	4. We Wait

There’s no handbook for this, and Beth hesitated to think what such a book would even look like.

She had seen people bitten, who turned in seconds, minutes, hours. It had been several hours since the boy had dug his teeth into her wrist, though the pain lingered like it were fresh.

The blind vomiting and bone-deep ache didn’t subside. She felt like she’d caught the worst cold of her life. This worsened her panic, and reinforced what she feared.

Even through all this, Daryl remained.

It was admirable, how he didn’t even make mention of how nauseating she was to be around. If anything, his patience was as big of a surprise as the bite.

”You don’t have to stay,” she mumbled. “Just leave me here to die.”

Daryl laughed at that, the sadistic asshole. Maybe he was enjoying her descent from holier than thou to patient zero.

”Y’ain’t gonna die.”

Beth hated that he found his optimism now, of all times. She was curled up beside the toilet, her back to the porcelain bath and her toes curled in her shoes. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, and her skin and gone sickly.

”Think y’can make it to the room next door?” He pushed himself up, a metal bucket in one hand while the other he offered to her.

”No,” she rasped, her face scrunched and tears rolling down her cheeks.

”C’mon,” he coaxed. “There’s a bed hollerin’ your name.”

She swallowed hard, mindful that her stomach had stopped it’s protests a while ago. She felt as sick as before, but it had transformed into an overall sickness. She wiped her hand on a hand towel nearby, then wiped at her face and her mouth.

Daryl stood patiently, his hand fixed in space until she accepted it. He helped her to her shaky feet, and led her cautiously to the adjacent room. The door between the room and bathroom was white, and matched all the other doors. She wondered if this house had been here before this was a graveyard, or if they’d built it after the fact.

Who would want to live amongst the graves?

Daryl as good as set Beth down, helped her knock her boots off, and grabbed a throw blanket off a chair.

Beth took her time to glance around the bedroom, affixed with old furniture and even older light fixtures. She could feel her breathing and see the shake in her hands. She couldn’t even fight Daryl off when he swiped a cloth over her face.

”Why’re you bein’ so good about this.” She stumbled over her words, her throat dry and her stomach roiling. “I’m gross.”

”Took care of my mom, sometimes,” he hooked a chair with his foot, and dragged it closer. “Dad, too, Merle... People bein’ messy, s’always been part of my life. Don’t bother me none.”

“They get sick often?” He sat beside her, his elbows set on his knees and his posture tilted forward. 

“Naw. Drunk, mostly. Drugs.” He scratched his beard, a halfway smile formed on his face. “This one time, my old man was like one o’those fountains, just,” Daryl mimed barfing into the air with voracity, and his smile became a grin. “Asshole just about painted th’walls. Was fuckin’ disgusting. You doin’ little kitten hairballs ain’t shit compared to that.”

Beth felt her whole body rock, with a laugh and a shake of her head. “Hairballs?”

”You ever see a cat throw up a hairball?” He waved a hand at her, flicking his fingers into the air.

She leaned back into the plush pillows, aware this was a funeral home, and even more aware of the heat radiating from her. She wanted to stay awake, she wanted to talk to Daryl, to laugh or tease him, to learn more about his family. Instead, she felt hot tears spill down her cheeks, though her face didn’t change.

Daryl sat beside her, chewing into his cheek. He watched her, piercing blue eyes stuck to her.

”I spy, with my little blue eye,” he edged his words with spite, at her mistake about his eye color. He didn’t mean anything by it though, as he tossed his gaze around the room. “Somethin’ beginning with ‘S’.”

”What — “

”I didn’t get my turn, so, guess.” Daryl picked at his jeans, fumbling with the loose thread.

”Sick.” She grit her teeth, tilting her head from one side to the other.

”Naw,” he moved to rest his hands under his chin, his leg jiggling.

”Um... Sss...” Beth looked around, her eyes narrowed at the decorations, to the vanity with a big, beautiful ornate mirror. Things seemed blurrier by the minute, though she had tears in her eyes. “Sadness?”

”Beth,” he nudged her arm back onto the bed, as it lolled over the edge. “No.”

She looked back to him, her brows furrowed. Words formed in her mind but remained stuck there. She wanted to play, she wanted to guess, she wanted to to feel better. Whether she stopped the game, or he did, she faded from the light. It was warm and safe, and Daryl would take care of her.

At least they had each other, even at the end of the world.

Like lightning, it was midnight.

Beth inhaled, sharp and terrified. The room was dark, cast in shadows. It looked different, though the midday sun had made the quaint room homey. Now, it was pitch black, though several candles sat beside her bedstand. Her palm itched in a strange way, as if something was missing.

A thunderstorm powered on outside, with the infrequent crackle and hiss of thunder. The lightning served to show her how empty the room was.

Where was Daryl?

The door was cracked open, and the low, thundering sound downstairs caught her attention. It was slow, repetitive, set to no particular beat. She slid her legs off the bed, her mouth tasting of the sick from earlier. It was the same day, wasn’t it? She groggily stood from the bed, joints aching, skin clammy.

Daryl had been next to her, and now she was alone. Wasn’t she? 

The walls were strange in the dark, the pictures all contorted and shapeless. She walked with a hunter’s gait, heel to toe, edge of her foot, her heart beating deep within her sore rib cage.

She must have fallen asleep, but for how long? 

There was a figure at the bottom of the stairs, it looked like Daryl, and for a moment her panic settled. He had his crossbow held to one side, in a slack grip. She began her descent, down the stairs, to see him turn. The crossbow was aimed at her.

She tried to speak, but groans came from her, shapeless.

Another crack of lighting showed her flesh, decayed and fly-bitten. Another crack, her nails appeared overgrown. She felt nothing, no anger, no joy, no light, no darkness. All she knew was a hunger, to be close to him, to have him in her clutches.

Daryl hesitated despite his clear shot, and let loose the worst cry she’d heard in her life. The sound alone should have made her weep; instead, she felt nothing. If anything, the sound spurred her on, and she stumbled and lunged.

And a bolt landed between her eyes.

Blackness, a second time.

“Hey,” a warm voice called to her, matched with warm hands. She was too alight to have more warmth poured into her.

”Don’t touch me,” she begged, sleep drunk and crying.

“S’dream, Beth,” Daryl growled through her loose-fisted punches.

”I’m gonna hurt you, go away, get away.” Her protests weakened with each passing second, as the apparition of Daryl, who’d shot her, merged with the one holding her to his chest.

She had a sick sense of déjà vu, as all her nerve endings felt like they’d been set on fire. She caught her breath and clutched onto Daryl, stubby nails scrabbling against worn leather. She drew in his scent, of smoke and salt, and whatever made a forest feel alive.

Her nose burrowed into his neck, so close she could feel his pulse merge with hers.

”What happened?” He asked, flatly. “Don’t have to — “

”I turned, and, I tried to hurt you.” She answered, blankly. She neglected to mention his part in her dream, as she knew he’d carry guilt for something he’d not even had to do.

Daryl nodded, which inched his chin so it rested on top of her head. She could feel him clinging to her in return, his hand smoothing over her back.

”How much longer, til...”

”Would’ve happened by now, if it was gonna,” he drew back, though he’d shifted from the seat by her side to the edge of the bed. He’d jumped there in the span of her waking up. “Could be a coincidence, that jerky might’ve got you in a bad way, kid might’ve been fine...”

Beth began to worry her nails into her palms again, fists formed in her lap.

Daryl made to grab her hand, but withdrew before he reached her. Instead he punched himself in the thigh, growled, and stood up.

”M’gonna get food goin’,” he looked over her. “S’almost four, you were out for hours.”

Beth gave him a look of disbelief, her eyes wide and her lips tightly pursed together.

Daryl shrugged his crossbow onto his shoulder, and grabbed the metal basin he’d brought from the bathroom. It was empty, thankfully, as Beth didn’t think she could vomit anymore even if she wanted to.

”Did you just...”

He shrugged again, red around the neck as he retreated.

Beth hugged her knees for a moment before she wriggled free from the bed. She spotted a pair of ornate slippers, and a pair of fuzzy bunny ones. Her heart toyed with her as she tried to pick a pair, and settled on the ornate ones. She plodded after Daryl, weary but alive.

”Hey, bed,” he growled.

”Trying to keep all the food for yourself, huh?” She laughed, though it caught in her throat.

”Was gonna bring you somethin’,” he mumbled as he rushed down the stairs, jangling bolts all the way down. She could hear him rush across the wooden floors, where normally he was silent. 

“Wait, you were gonna bring me breakfast in bed? ‘Cept, lunch?”

Beth had a flash of panic as he returned, crossbow held slack off to the side with his gaze fixed up the darkened staircase at her. He hung off the banister, head cocked so his hair fell across his eyes.

”Ain’t your damn bellboy Greene,” he scoffed.

”You so were,” she giggled, finding joy in his lightened demeanour.

Though she skipped down the last few steps, he remained. A look of contemplation passed over him as he watched her, a once-over not hidden as she came face to face with him. She was a step up, which put them at equal footing. His jaw was locked, tongue toying behind a clenched jaw.

Beth lips parted, just a little, though she was self-conscious from her awful breath and sweat-matted hair. She blinked at him, looking at him, his eyes, his nose, lower, sleep glazed eyes lost in his details.

He spoke, stumbled words, though she caught none of them. 

”Pardon?”

“Ain’t nothing.” Daryl crooked a smile, his hair obscuring the red that had taken over his complexion. He tapped his thumb on the wood and stepped back, moving away from her and towards the kitchen. 

“No, what,” she chased him, though not as fast as she’d like. She managed to slink between him and the kitchen door, her back pressed against it as she stared up at him. Defiance was baked into everything about her, the tilt of her head, the way her eyes narrowed up at him.

”You never guessed, what my thing was. F’I Spy.”

”Oh. What was it?”

“Forget it.” Daryl swallowed hard enough to bob his Adam’s apple, an anxious smile hidden behind messy brown hair. “S’dumb.”

”Can’t be dumb, you picked it.”

Daryl quirked the corner of his mouth, as he looked down at her like a miracle in motion.

”I won’t laugh, promise.”

”’Survivor.’” He flexed his brows upwards at her, his head dipped to match. “And you proved me right, too.”

Beth relented, as she pivoted to let him pass. She used the heel of her palm to wipe her eyes, which were red raw from her hellish day. She hovered by the kitchen door as he swaggered through the kitchen, popping open cabinets with no hesitation.

Beth shook her head, stepping in to take a seat at the kitchen table. Though she didn’t feel as though she was on death’s door, she didn’t trust that it had passed. She accepted a glass of water he poured her from a plastic bottle, and watched as he pulled out a little of everything.

He turned to look at her, fist-deep in a jar of pigs feet, and she had to wonder how such a man could break and build her heart up in so few words. 

“Use a fork or something,” she scolded, as he sucked his fingers clean.

”Why?”

Beth smiled to herself, rueful of how poor manners could make her heart feel lighter. But Daryl was like that, making her feel worse to make her feel better. She imagined she had a similar effect on him. Her stomach settled with each sip of water, and waited for their banquet to begin.


	5. Promises Untold

Lunch turned into an early dinner, as Beth and Daryl soaked in some peace. Their meals were often rushed and never relished, and so they took their time. They kept quiet mostly, though Beth tried to perk up the conversation. It was difficult to have a conversation that was so unwanted and one-sided.

The only time he seemed to really pay attention was when she seemed to dip, physically. He was on edge, and moved to put his hand on her back if she swayed. She couldn’t vomit anymore, though after eating for a while, it was a very real concern.

She’d need a few days to recover in full, if she did recover... But that suited her fine.

The little funeral home felt just like that; a home. There were four walls and a roof over their heads, with doors and windows. It was a proper house, that smelled musty at worst. The only dead people here were long dead, and not a threat.

Funny, how a world full of death lessened the creep factor of the casket in the reception room. Not to mention the menu of burial types, from all budgets.

”Tch...” Daryl flicked messy fingers against the cardstock, leaving a yellowed powder where it hit. “‘Magine payin’ a couple a’thousand to stick some sorry asshole into th’ground.”

”We paid that much, for my nana.” She shoved a chunk of hair behind her ear, heavy lids obscuring the full weight of her gaze.

Daryl made a sound from the back of his throat. It could have been an apology, if he’d meant it.

”You wouldn’t have paid to bury your — your brother?” She hesitated, about to suggest a funeral for Daryl’s father. She didn’t know enough about the man or Daryl’s fondness for him, so she withdrew. She instead fidgeted with her hair, pushing it again and again behind her ear.

Daryl shrugged a shoulder and sucked the meat of his cheek between his teeth. He tongued around his mouth, lips pursued shut. The anxious tap to his foot and the way he jittered on the spot set her on edge.

”What?”

”Y’damn... Your fussin’ is — s’annoying,” he heaved a sigh, almost a growl, and yanked her chair closer by the leg with his foot. She latched onto the seat, hands clamped on the wood.

”Don’t cut it,” she yelled, helpless.

”I’m not gonna cut your hair, Beth,” he spoke, clear and slow. She heard the breath of a laugh at he said her name, as he licked his fingers clean.

”Ew, Daryl! Don’t lick your fingers and touch my hair — “

”Don’t be precious,” he muttered, though he thought better. He stood up and flourished his hands into the hair. Crumbs fell from his lap and the creases of his jeans, bits of potato crisps and a bean of all things. He twiddled his fingers for show, and walked over to the tap.

”It’s fine, just needs to grow out, don’t worry about it...” she whined, her cheeks going red. She felt a hot flush of shame in her stomach, though she didn’t know why. She had probably been covered in more viscera, shit and piss on the farm even before the world fell... Such was the life of a girl, tending to animals of all sorts and assisting in veterinarian nursing. 

Things had only gotten messier, given the corpses on parade.

Daryl yanked his chair around to a better angle, jaw clenched. He sat back down on his abandoned seat, legs spread so he could jigsaw closer to her.

”Didn’t have t’be a big fuckin’ deal...”

Beth rolled her eyes, as he was just as culpable as her. She nodded when he raised his hand, as if asking for permission to touch her hair.

Even with the nod from Beth, he hesitated. It had been his idea, and yet he lingered, waiting. She shot him a sidelong glance, a challenging arch to her brow. 

That was all it took.

Where she expected a rough yank and a knife through her overgrown bangs, she was instead met with... Nothing. Almost nothing, anyway. There was a soft brush of his knuckles against her cheek and the lift of her hair. She scrunched her eyes shut as he worked his fingers through her hair, and sat in anxious silence.

It was nice, in the strangest way. It felt like how her mother used to braid her hair, when she was going to choir performances. Or when Maggie would insist on trying a new hairstyle on Beth first, even though Beth resisted. Occasionally Daryl would yank too hair, but she wasn’t about to cry over it.

He’d mumble an apology, pause, and then resume when she’d wave her hand at him. A few moments of silence passed, and whatever he’d been doing was done.

She expected the hair to flop back into place, to loosely sprawl across her cheek... But the tickling of her hair stayed away. She reached up out of reflex, as her fingers met a neat braid. She gawked at Daryl, her cheeks going red all over again.

”How do you know how to braid?”

”S’just a kind of knot,” he dismissed. “Used t’make bracelets, sell ‘em by gas stations f’cash...” he flinched, teeth grit as too much fell from his mouth.

”I can’t imagine you making bracelets to sell,” she smiled, her nose wrinkled. “Didn’t you hunt, or...”

Daryl shrugged. “Was a kid. Sucked shit at huntin’.”

The picture in Beth’s mind of a fully grown Daryl brooding by a gas pump with a blanket of bracelets turned into a scruffy kid with a rough haircut and dirt all over his face. She didn’t know enough to say anything, but the image struck her all the same.

Daryl moved to collect up the scraps of their food, as he hunted down a plastic container to package up what remained. He worked in silence, not a sound more than necessary.

Beth ran her fingers over the braid, over and over, her eyes downcast as she let Daryl fuss.

He liked to be doing something. Especially if he’d said too much, or if he felt too much. Maybe that was an unfair judgement to make, but unless he was drunk, he was locked up tight. She still couldn’t believe how he’d pulled her close when she’d been bitten, or how he’d played with her hair now.

But he had tried to protect her, and he’d wanted to fix her hair; it was functional, practical, and he’d never let her believe otherwise. She didn’t want to press him, on his history of selling bracelets, or why a child needed to make money. They’d had a nice meal, and she wanted to preserve that.

So much so, that she let him rearrange the same three cans of beans, and acted as if she’d not noticed.

”I might... Sleep,” she yawned her way through the word ‘sleep’, and let the word linger. She pushed up from the kitchen table, as Daryl continued to work through the cans. “You gonna share the bedroom with me, or..?”

Silence, though he fumbled the green beans and they dented on the edge of the counter. He swished them back onto their shelf, head ducked.

”Nah.”

”Oh, sure, I just figured, to be safe...” she growled the word ‘safe’, unsure where her anger came from. “If you want space, or — I’ll take one room, you go — wherever..? I’m not sure it’s really time to be splitting rooms.“

Sharing a proper, complete bedroom with Daryl wasn’t technically different than sleeping within arms reach of him in their dirt camps. But the vision of them curled up in a bonafide bed, in a little white house... her stomach flipped, as if she’d been caught on a website she ought not be on.

Daryl milled his teeth in circles, facing away from Beth.

”Okay, be quiet if you really want,” she huffed in a far too childish tone. She hated her voice in that moment for betraying her. “Thanks for dinner, and, taking care of me, I guess, okay, night.”

This sucks, this sucks, this sucks, her brain repeated.

Had she said something wrong?

The dizziness and nausea kicked in again as she took the steps two at a time. She grabbed the railing with her injured wrist, which yanked at sore tensions and wounded skin. The pain was enough to make her pause and reconsider. She didn’t want to storm off to the bedroom, to find walkers the next morning and no Daryl, or worse...

Her gaze jumped to her wrist, the wound that she didn’t trust in the slightest.

”Daryl,” she called, only to see him at the bottom of the stairs.

Given how he looked ready to grab her, she must have made a sound when she’d stumbled. He looked like he’d been standing there for long than she’d known about him, as he stared up at her with a set expression.

”I hate how quiet you can be.” She mumbled, about before, and about his stealthy ways.

”Y’cried.”

Beth stomped out the knee-jerk response, to deny that she’d cried, but she didn’t want to fight. She didn’t want to see him slink off for the other side of the house, and to spend the night worrying about where he was.

All they had was each other right now. 

“Either, share the bed with me, or drag a mattress in, ‘cause until we know this place is safe for sure, we aren’t sleeping apart.” She hasn’t ever demanded anything of Daryl like this, like she was in charge. She’d yell and kick a fit over minor things, but about sleeping arrangements..?

”I’ll grab somethin’,” he said, nonchalant. She noticed how he ducked his head and muttered something, but let that be. She was tired, and sunlight was dying.

And her fever was back with a vengeance, coupled with sweats and shakes.

She dug around in the drawers and grabbed the biggest shirt she could find. She was in and out of her clothes like lighting, which did nothing for her stomach. But the looser fabric already alleviated the chafing and itches from dirty clothes.

Daryl lugged two oversized cushions in behind him, which had been knifed apart from...

”Did you steal those from the coffin?”

”Ain’t stealin’,” he scoffed, as he failed to disguise a playful smile. He tossed the comically plush velvet cushions down, though the rough edges where he’d cut them away from the coffin did nothing for their look. He slumped down, legs crossed and a half-cocked smirk in place.

”You look pleased.”

”I feel like a damn king.”

Beth giggled, her nose wrinkled and her eyes locked with Daryl’s.

His gaze flicked over her, from the pile of clothes to the oversized shirt she’d stolen from the drawers. “And you’re callin’ me a thief?”

”I can give this back!” She plucked at the material, which said ‘Female Body Inspector’. It felt morbid for a morgue owner to have, and in such a quaint little funeral home. She tried to ignore the phrase, which she’d not looked at twice.

”Merle had a shirt like that. Called it his lucky shirt,” Daryl scoffed. “Was more like his hangover shirt, used t’vomit all over it.”

”You didn’t say before, if you’d have wanted to do a proper burial for your brother.” Beth crossed her arms, to obscure the tacky phrase. “I’d have wanted to bury my mom... My dad... Proper ceremony, to talk about them, and say my goodbyes like how you’re s’posed to... Not just...”

”I figured Merle’d die in a prison or an alleyway, and I’d never see the body neither way,” Daryl shrugged. “Didn’t bury my mom, neither, or m’dad.” He scratched his lip with his blunt index finger, his eyes fixed to Beth’s right ankle. 

A light went up behind Beth’s eyes, her smile back despite the swirl in her stomach. “How about tomorrow, we do like... a farewell. We can bury some stones with their names on them, maybe say something nice, like how they do at real funerals.”

Daryl shook his head, as he slumped back onto his wonky pillow pile, of carved coffin inserts. He snatched a blanket and begun to work at a pillow, but gave up and sprawled. 

“You don’t want to say goodbye to them?”

”Already said goodbye to them once,” he stretched so far that even Beth heard his back crack. “No point lingerin’.”

Beth wanted to point out the hypocrisy of that; of how he did nothing but live in the past, and ache like an open wound for mistakes he’d made months ago. But she withheld, and crawled onto the bed that had been her final resting place a few hours ago.

Daryl shifted, back and forth, his vest creaking and his boots scruffing the floor. She could even hear the sound of his beard as it grazed the velvet, given the silence of the house.

”Hey Daryl?”

A grunt.

”Can you tie my wrists to the bed or something?”

Silence followed, for far longer than Beth liked. Slowly, she saw his head rise. He gave her a cautious scowl, which was his way of appraising people.

”Y’ain’t gonna turn.”

”Just in case I do — “

”I’ll hear it.”

”But what if you don’t?” She swallowed hard. “Daryl, promise me, if I turn, don’t give up... Please?”

The unwelcome imagery of biting down onto Daryl’s neck, as blood spurted from his exposed arteries. She revelled in it, mindless and desperate. And he leaned into it, desperate to be free.

”Go to sleep, Beth.”

”Not ‘til you promise,” she repeated. “No matter what happens to me, our family is out there, and at least one of us has to find them. You have a better chance than me, and you’re strong, and you weren’t bitten — “

”Girl,” he snapped, turning his full attention back to her. “You ain’t gonna die.”

”Promise.”

Daryl tongued his dry lips apart, flecks of salt mixed into his sparse beard. 

The room spun around her, as sleep deprivation and a full stomach coddled her to sleep. She laid there in the growing darkness, waiting for him to speak. She wanted him to promise, to say he’d keep fighting, and he’d tell her family all about the things they’d gotten up to, and he’d be there for Maggie’s baby, and for Judith, and all the people that needed him, and — and what did he need?

But he didn’t promise.

She remembered that much, when she awoke the next morning tangled in her sheets. An empty next of cushions beside her, rather than by the door.

And then she heard it; crack.

Crack.

Crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, do you hear that? Me, making total headcanons for the characters and creating moments that would never happen but make my heart happy? And flustering both of them on repeat?
> 
> Why yes. Yes, that’s my brand, thank you for noticing.


	6. 6. Would Work.

The sound of metal against wood sounded from downstairs, in a pattern of clacks.

It was evenly paced and unhurried like someone was repairing a damaged window shutter. It was almost mundane, in a funny way, like when she'd wake up late on a Sunday morning to the sound of her father fixing a fence outside. She almost bought into that fantasy for a long moment as she snuggled into the blankets and rubbed her face into cool linen. The pillow beside her had been untouched through the night, and retained that cool freshness to it.

And then her wrist twisted against the blanket in the wrong way and pain sobered her back up.

The room looked much as it had yesterday, with old wooden furniture coated with chipped white paint. The light fixtures were decorated with a few gossamer webs, and the curtains blew with the faintest breeze from the window. While the door was shut tight, the window beside her was wedged open but locked in place. They were on the second story, and the smell of sick would have clung to the room if they'd not cracked the window open. At least there was a screen to keep the bugs out.

And aside from the fixtures that had been here when they'd arrived, there was also Daryl's makeshift nest. It was a pile of severed coffin cushions crammed into the corner of the room, more like a dog's bed than a human's. Blankets were wound up in knots, and a gritty brown tarnished the white silk. She winced at the sight, as it couldn't be comfortable. He must have ached from the weird angles and hard floor.

Then again, he'd opted to sleep on metal grates at the prison, then concrete. She'd not seen him use a mattress, ever.

 It was strange to think that he was putting any effort into this house. He'd only ever done that in one other house, where they'd hunkered down for a few  _weeks_. That, and the prison...

Was that the plan, then?

She shoved her light blanket off herself, and welcome the brief woosh of cool air. The mattress was plush and extravagant compared to the prison, and even to her bed back home... Rather, the farm, which she had to stop comparing this place to. She 

It seemed excessive, for Beth to have a whole bed while he nested in the corner.

They could take turns, which he'd hate. Or they could...

_Share?_

The simple word caused her stomach to churn. It was a kind thing, to share a space with someone. To share anything implied give and take, and generosity. She wouldn't force the bed on him, and he wouldn't steal it from her. So, they could share it, like they'd shared the tarp on the forest floor, or the makeshift tents he'd cobble together.

But the nature of the clean linen sheets and cushy mattress made it unlike those times before.

What's worse, the boy's words yesterday flooded back into her mind. He'd never spoken them, but they still echoed in her head.

_"Use girl to get him to work? Probably wants to fuck her."_

How had that been his impression, in his voyeurism of them? It felt spiteful, to think that Daryl wanted _something_  from Beth. She danced around the phrasing in her mind, as a fantasy of the boy who'd stalked them. She doubted Daryl was any more interested in her than anyone else. And he'd not ever seemed the type to be interested in  _anyone_. She couldn't think of a time when she'd seen him even be nice to someone for longer than a few seconds -- but perhaps that was mean.

He was sweet with those who needed sweetness, and refused to deal with idiots.

And the thoughts all began to crash down on her, tainting his kindness with doubts. Was that all Beth could ever be in this world? The girl, owned by whoever could protect her. It felt barbaric and cut her out of the equation.

Besides, Daryl wasn't _some_ guy, being nice to get something from her. He'd been close with her father, and with Rick, and he'd trusted her. He brought her back treats from runs, like books, posters, sometimes clothes, but so did Glenn, so did Maggie. He cared about her, and so any intimacy the boy gleaned from watching them was mistaken.

Right?

She noticed the flash of red beside her and turned to stare.

So, one thing that _had_ changed in this little bedroom they'd invaded; an apple had appeared on the bedside table beside her.

If Beth had to guess, she'd say it was Daryl reinforcing the windows. He had a habit of boarding up the windows on the lower floor, in the interest of protecting the house at large.

The smack of wood continued, methodical and then not at all. The pause only lasted for a moment before she heard the crunch of gravel. There were no other sounds outside, nothing to suggest danger, so she slowly propped herself up on the bed. She didn't want to rush, not unless she wanted to be sick all over again.

She snatched up the apple from her bedside and examined the peel. It was pocked with age but edible. She twisted it in hand before she took a bite, chewing through the apple and her rush of thoughts.

Beth wasn't stupid, or naive. She'd be able to tell if Daryl was out to use her like that, and he'd had ample opportunities to do so. The very thought made her skin crawl, in distaste for the idea that someone she trusted would reduce her to something to  _fuck_ , but the world wasn't pretty, and good things rarely happened anymore. She had to look for the good in people, and the world, and trust those close to her. There wasn't any other way around it.

The heavy stomp of boots down the hallway was so unlike Daryl, who usually moved in secret. But given he'd left her alone in the room, perhaps he was worried she'd not be ready for him.

Her head spun as she looked to the door, sickness lingering around the edges of her vision. Everything was blurry and too bright, and her stomach screamed in response to the apple.

There was a light knock, as if his stomping hadn't been enough to announce his approach.

"You can come in."

The door opened a crack, where she could see the side of Daryl's head.

"Gutted the deer, got some meat curin'." He licked his lips, no sense of pride in his words. He'd not hunted the deer, it'd been given to him by someone else's trap. "Should have some steaks later."

"Oh, good," Beth said, a genuine smile on her lips.

"I know y'was a vegetarian before, but ain't much in the way of vegetables." He kept his vision ahead, speaking through the crack but not looking inward. "Sorry."

"Can't afford to be picky, now can I?" Beth stood up from the bed, her arms crossed to cover the slogan on her shirt. It felt rude to still be in bed when he'd been working all morning.

"Gonna look f'anythin' we can eat 'round the forest." He mumbled a few words past that, but she'd missed them. It sounded like he started listing off vegetables.

"Hey," she went over to her backpack, to dig through it. "Did you happen to see any batteries around?"

Daryl grunted and shoved away from the room.

With no response offered in kind, Beth was left in the bedroom alone. She picked out the walkie talkie from the tarp they'd gathered up, from their makeshift camp the other day. The boy had it when they'd caught him. It had no batteries which she found strange, but perhaps he'd found it while he was adventuring around.

It felt morbid to simplify what he'd been doing as 'adventuring around'.

She turned it over in her hand, then pulled out the pages of the journal. The book had remained mostly intact, except for the pages Daryl had torn out in disgust. She didn't linger on the notes he'd made about their coordinates. Instead, she took a seat on the bed and began to pour over the notes. She kept the walkie talkie in hand, turning it over and over in a loose fist as she read. 

There had to be something in all this, a location that this boy came from, or even notes that sounded like her family.

There were countless of names, coordinates and descriptions. Most of it was garbled, hair colours, eye colours, names... And sure, Beth dug through all of it with a keen eye, but nothing sounded like Maggie. A few gave the impression of Rick, or of Michonne, but she couldn't be sure. They both stood out quite a bit, so if the boy had seen either of them, it'd be noted. There mustn't have been many women out there with katanas, right?

Maybe there was hope in all this. She'd read it a dozen times if it meant she found her family.

The hours crept by in much the same fashion. Daryl had vanished into the surrounding forests with his crossbow, to check the perimeter. The injured deer, caught in a trap, meant there might be people around. As much as she wanted to reassure him that they were safe, and no one knew about them, she had a bite mark on her wrist to remind her now that you couldn't ever be too safe.

Beth remained pressed into the corner of the bedroom upstairs, still frail from all her vomiting. The frailty compounded with her feeling of being dead weight, and so anxiety and self-loathing formed like blossoms in her chest. She hated that she couldn't be out there alongside Daryl, doing the work that he always defaulted to.

It should be balanced, and she should be able to keep herself safe. She did appreciate his effort though, and how he asked for nothing in return.

She'd think of a way to thank him, as she toyed with the loose braid that still clung to her temple.

"Grub's on."

That was Daryl, outside the bedroom like a visitor at a zoo. This time he'd hung by the door in silence, gazing in through the crack he'd left earlier. He kept that distance as if he'd not clutched her to his chest and cried about her wounds yesterday. She set aside the torn journal for now, as she'd come back to it with fresh eyes.

She'd changed out of her dirty, ragged clothes and was instead wearing a pair of jeans and a gingham shirt she'd picked from an adjourning closet. There had been some sweet blouses too, which she'd gratefully picked out one. She had to wonder if it'd been a husband and wife, tending to the deceased. It made the bedroom feel different, to think it'd been a couple's, but she didn't want to linger on that all over again.

She skipped down the stairs and spotted Daryl outside with an assortment of logs. A plate was on the entryway table, with her food placed onto it. He'd clearly tried to make it neat, as there were smear lines that showed the food had been rearranged. She picked up the porcelain plate with honeysuckles painted around the edges, as she tried her luck with a strip of deer meat.

 _Crack_.

Beth had been on the right track earlier, as she watched Daryl split pieces of wood into slimmer parts. He notched a piece of wood to the side with the head of his axe, tongue poking out between his teeth. When he was happy, he drew the axe back and swung again.

He repeated this, with piece after piece. Some of it would be more suited to firewood, while other pieces she could imagine pressed against the windows.

"Wasn't there enough for the windows..?" Beth gestured with sticky fingers, coated in the juices of the deer meat.

"Nah. Lotta windows." He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his face red and his hair wet. He was sweating harder than anyone she'd seen before, but it suited him. He lacked self-awareness, or if he knew how sweaty he was, he failed to care.

And then Beth caught herself staring at him cracking logs into rough planks.

The ache in Beth's wrist had meant restless sleep and awful dreams. She'd never slept well before, though her skin glowed and her eyes never betrayed the sleepless nights. She still glowed, dewy and sweat-ridden from the heat of a dying summer. They were into fall now, weren't they? They had to be, with the orange palette that followed.

She'd not even been awake for long, though she'd managed to eat a little bit and drink some water. It was a miracle the deer meat was sitting right in her stomach, given her distaste for meat.

Daryl continued to chop wood, and Beth openly stared. She didn't know if it was rude -- actually, she  _knew_ it was rude -- but there was an admirable strength to everything Daryl did. He was so quiet and reserved in most things, but when it came to survival he was animalistic. And such a phrase may sound rude, too, but there was an indifference to everything he did. She admired that about him, as he worked up a sweat and gave no care to how he looked while doing it.

And yet, he remained breathtaking. Like when you see a woodchipper tear through branches or watch a machine gun level walkers. There was a brute efficiency in him that she felt herself caught by.

"You good?" Daryl swiped at his brow again, resting his weight on the hilt of the axe.

"Didn't mean anythin' by it." Beth popped another piece of deer into her mouth. 

Daryl grunted, about how it wasn't anything exciting.

"I like the smell of freshly cut wood," Beth took her final bite of deer meat, aware how much of a delicacy that was now. Everything was so much more intense because of scarcity. You felt alive at all times. She watched as his chest rose and fell with his breaths, and her gaze snagged on the edge of a tattoo on his chest she'd not seen before. A few buttons had popped, and she shoved herself to her feet. She needed to be away from him, away from the house, just for a little bit.

And so she walked, the plate left on the porch steps and her shoulders hunched.

At first she expected Daryl to pace after her, but he let her go. She wasn't going to go far, and maybe he trusted her in that, too.

It didn't change the way the smell of death rushed into her nostrils all at once, or how a lumbering walker emerged from the brush. Her knife was still hitched to the belt of her jeans back at the house, which she'd needed to wash.

She had nothing.

She stepped back, once, twice, then pivoted to rush back towards the funeral home. She didn't pause to listen for the walker or worry about keeping quiet. She rushed towards where Daryl had been chopping wood, as the vague groans of walkers began to grow. Whether they were brought on by the sound of wood being chopped, or by the scent of cooked deer, she couldn't say. Daryl wasn't outside though, and she didn't know  _where_ he'd gone to. It was just her, and --

It didn't seem to matter. The walkers shuffled as a mass, a group of ten or so, shambling from one edge of the forest to the other. She was frozen by the house, Daryl's discarded axe in hand.

That, or in spite of how she'd walked right into their group, they'd not noticed her. Or they'd not noticed her running away, or her standing there now. She had time to run back inside, to lock the door and hide, but a question clung to her insides. She stood her ground, axe held between her hands, her shoulders squared and her chin dipped lower. 

They were  _ignoring_ her.

But, what if she could get one of them to  _bite_ her..?

To make sure?

Her blood was thumping in her head as her illness perked back up. She'd been bitten and survived the fever, and she was still here. What did it  _mean_? Did it mean anything at all?

She weighted the axe in her hand, debating her odds. If they all attacked her, she'd be done for. And given none of them had noticed her, she could've maybe waited for a straggler. She could lure one off to the side and have it bite her, just to be sure --

A hand landed on her shoulder, as solid as a crossbow bolt to the head. She jumped, her head snapped so she could look -- at Daryl. Of course. He yanked her after him, back into the house.

"Are you outta your goddamn  _mind_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a new job that doesn't let me write oodles of fic while it's quiet, so alas, it took me time to write this update. BUT MAN, IT JUST MAKES ME FEEL THINGS.


End file.
